Chapter VI: Part 6

“Solomon says, 'Train up a child in the way that he should go, and when he is old he will never depart from it;' and I 'll apply these words to the Glen of Drumtochty, 'Train hup a child to 'ate the bottle, and when he is old he 'ill never depart from it;'” and the lecturer sat down in a silence that might be heard.

There was something approaching a rustle when Jamie rose to propose the vote of thanks--several charging themselves with snuff in haste, that a word might not be lost--and no one was disappointed.

“Doctor Davidson an' neeburs,” said Jamie, “it wudna be richt that this young gentleman sud come sae far o' his ain accord and give us sic a faithfu' address withoot oor thanks, although he 'ill excuse us puir country fouk for no bein' able to speak his beautiful English.

“We a' admired his ingenious application o' Proverbs, an' he may be sure that nane o' us 'ill forget that new Proverb as lang as we live; a' micht say that it 'ill be a household word in the Glen.

“Gin it's no presumption tae say it, it's verra interestin' tae see hoo much experience the lecturer hes for his years in the up bringing o' bairns, and a' mak nae doot the learned bodies in the Glen, as well as the parents, 'ill lay his words tae heart.

“There wes a man in a glen north-bye,” modestly offering an anecdote for the lecturer's future use, “'at wes sober (ill), an' the doctor, wha wes a verra ignorant man, said he wud need a small tastin' tae keep up his strength. But the man wes of the lecturer's persuasion, and wud drink nothing but water. The weather wes terrible cold, and one day, juist five minutes aifter he hed his mornin' gless of water, the man died. When they opened him it wes found that he hed frozen up inch by inch, and the laist gless had juist turned tae ice in his throat. It wes sic a noble instance o' conscientious adherence tae principle that a' thocht a' wud mention it for the lecturer's encouragement.” And when Jamie sat down the audience were looking before them with an immovable countenance, and the doctor held out his silver snuff box to Jamie afterwards with marked consideration.

It is, however, generally agreed that Jamie's most felicitous stroke was his guileless response to the humiliating invitation of a lay preacher, who had secured the use of the Free Kirk, and held a meeting under Milton's auspices.

“Now, my dear friends,” said the good man, a half-pay Indian Colonel, with a suspicion of sunstroke, “all who wish to go to heaven stand up,” and Drumtochty rose in a solid mass, except Lachlan Campbell, who considered the preacher ignorant of the very elements of doctrine, and Jamie, who was making a study of Milton with great enjoyment.

Much cheered by this earnest spirit, the Colonel then asked any Drumtochty man (or woman) who wished to go elsewhere to declare himself after the same fashion.

No one moved for the space of thirty seconds, and the preacher was about to fall back on general exhortation, when Jamie rose in his place and stood with great composure.

“You surely did not understand what I said, my aged friend.”

Jamie indicated that he had thoroughly grasped the Colonel's meaning.

“Do you really mean that you are ready to... go....where I mentioned?”

“A 'm no anxious for sic a road,” said Jamie, blandly, “but a' cudna bear tae see ye stannin' alane, and you a stranger in the pairish,” and Drumtochty, which had been taken unawares and was already repenting a weak concession, went home satisfied.

Hillocks was so drawn to Jamie after this incident that he forgave him his wild views on marriage, and afforded him an opportunity of explaining his hat-band.

“Ye're a body, Jamie,” he said in vague compliment, “an' every man hes his ain wys; but hoo is 't that ye aye hae a band on yir hat?”

“What think ye yersel?” and Jamie eyed Hillocks with a gleam of humour.

“As sure 's deith, Jamie, a' canna guess, unless it be a notion.”

“Toots, man, a' thocht ye wud hae been sure tae jalouse the truth o' a' the fouk in the Glen; div ye no ken that a band hides the grease an' maks a hat laist twice as lang?”

“Is that a'?” said Hillocks; “juist economy?”

“Ye hae the word,” answered Jamie, with unblushing face. “That band's savit me the price o' twa new hats in forty year.”

It was on the way home from kirk, and after Hillocks had turned into his own road Jamie took off his hat and brushed the band with a reverent hand.

When Jamie “slippit awa” and the kirkyard met to pass judgment, it was agreed that he had been a thorough-going imposter and had quite befooled the outer world, but that he had never taken in the Glen.

“It cowed a' tae hear Kildrummie lecturin' on Jamie in the third laist Friday,” said Drumsheugh, with immense contempt; “ye sud hae been there, Hillocks; a' never heard as muckle doonricht nonsense atween the Junction an' the station in forty year. Man, gin Jamie hed juist been in the train himsel, he wud hae been terrible pleased.

“'He's awa noo.' says that jultlin' (tricky) twa-faced body Sandie Mackay, that gied Jamie licht wecht wi' his coal, 'an' it's oor duty tae be charitable, but a 've ma doots aboot him. His tongue wes nae scannal, an' he wes aye maist veecious against speeritual releegion.'”

“What said ye, Drumsheugh?” inquired Hillocks, with keen expectation.

“Naethin' worth mentionin'; it's no easy pittin' sense intae a Kildrummie man. 'Ye 're wrang aboot Jamie miscain' gude men, Sandie, for he wes awfu' taen (taken) up wi' Milton; he coonted him a straichforrit, honourable man, wha wudna gie licht wecht or tak advantage o' a neebur.'”

“Ye hed him there; he wud lat Jamie alane aifter that, a'm expeckin'.”

“'It's a feedin' storm an' no lichtsome for the sheep,' wes a' he said.

“Na, na, Sandie needna speak tae a Drumtochty man aboot Jamie; he didna live here a' his days withoot oor kennin' him. There's nae doot he hed a tongue, but it wes aye on the richt side.

“Div ye mind hoo he yokit on the kirkyaird ae day for lauchin' at Airchie Moncur an' his teatotalism? it took us a' oor time tae quiet him, he wes that croose; and ye ken it wes Jamie that focht awa wi' Posty till the morning he wes drooned. He got him doon tae twa gless a day, an' micht hae reformed him athegither gin he hedna been interrupit.

“His hert wes juist ower big, that wes the maitter wi' Jamie, an' he hoddit (hid) his feelings for fear o' makin' a fule o' himsel afore the pairish.

“Sall, he wesna verra parteeklar what he said gin ye hed him in a corner. He nursit the bit lassie that lived wi' Mary Robertson for a hale day when she wes deein' o' diptheria, an' threipit tae me that he hed juist gi'en a cry in passin', an' when Lily Grant deed in London, he gied oot that her mistress hed paid for bringin' the corpse tae Drumtochty kirkyaird. He cud lee near as weel as Milton, but it wes aye tae cover his ain gudeness.

“A' coontit Weelum Maclure an' Jamie Soutar the warmest herts in the Glen, an' Jamie 's never been the same sin... we lost Weelum. The kirkyaird's no worth comin' tae noo that Jamie's awa.”

It spoke volumes for Milton's zeal that he was among the first to visit Jamie after he took to bed, and the Glen can never be sufficiently thankful that Elspeth Macfadyen was present to give an accurate account of the interview.

“'Whatna step is that at the door?' said Jamie; 'a' never herd it here afore '; and when a' telt him it wes Milton, he gied me a luke an' briskit up that meenut.

“'Elspeth, he 's come tae dae me gude, an' he thinks he hes me in his hand; pit him in yon chair whar a' can keep ma een on him, for a' canna manage him oot o' ma sicht.'

“'It's solemn tae see ye brocht sae low, Jam--Mister Soutar '; he thocht he micht try Jamie at laist, but the spunk gied oot o' him facin' Jamie. 'Thae strokes are sent for a wise end; they humble oor pride.'

“'It's no a stroke,' said Jamie, lookin' fearsome at him frae ablow his nicht-cap, 'though a 'll no deny there micht be a titch o' rheumaticks. But a' coont lumbago mair subduin'; it taks ye sudden in the sma o' the back, an' 'ill keep ye in the bit for an 'oor.'

“'A' wes thinkin' o' the hert, no the body, ma freend,' an' Milton started on the whine; 'a 've been afflickit masel, an' dinna ken what a 'd been the day hed it no been for trials.' “'Ye needna tell me, Milton, for a'body kens yir losses, but a' houp ye'ill hae the present gude wife a whilie; is she yir third or fourth? for ma memory's gaein' fast.'

“Milton said naethin' for a meenut, an' a' daurna look at him, but Jamie's een were dancin' in his heid; he wes haein' his last bout wi' Milton, an' it wes meat an' drink tae him.

“'Wud ye like me tae read somethin'?' begins Milton again. 'A've a fine tract here, “A Sandy Foundation”; it's verra searchin' an' rousin', an' he pits on his glesses.

“'Thank ye,' says Jamie, 'but thae tracts are ower deep for a simple man like masel; the Bible dis for me graund. A've a favourite passage; noo if ye didna mind readin' 't, it wud be a comfort.

“'Turn tae the 23rd o' Matthew, an' it 'ill dae fine gin ye begin at the 13th verse, “Woe unto ye, Scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites,” an' as sure as a'm lookin' at ye, Drumsheugh, Jamie gared Milton feenish the chapter, an' ilka time heepocrites wud come he wud say tae himsel, 'Maist comfortin',' till a' hed tae gae ootside; he wes a veecious cratur, Jamie, when he hed an ill-wull tae a body.

“When a' cam in, Milton hed been wantin' tae pray, and Jamie wes layin' doon three condeetions.

“'First, ye maunna scriech (scream), for that wud gae through ma head; secondly,' just like a sermon, 'ye 're no tae gang wanderin' aifter the Jews or ony orra fouk; and laist, there's tae be naethin' personal, for a' wud coont that doonricht impidence.'

“'A'm astonished at ye,' says Milton; 'hoo cud ye expect a blessin' on sic a prayer?' an' he rises tae leave. 'Ye 're sure there's naethin' on yir mind, for a 've hed experience.'

“'Weel, Milton, noo that ye 've mentioned 't, there is a maitter tribblin' me, but it's no every man a' cud trust, an' a' dinna want tae burden ye.'

“'Is't a sin o' omission or commission?' an' Milton wes as keen as a ferret. Puir cratur, little he kent Jamie.

“'Curious tae say, it's baith; it's maist extraordinar' hoo near ye've come tae't; hoo cud ye ken?'

“'We 're a' frail, Mister Soutar,' an' Milton lookit as if butter cudna melt in his mooth; 'ye michtna think it, but a v'e been tempit masel--lang syne, of coorse; baith, omission an' commission, did ye say? that's no sae common.'”

“'Na, it taks an accompleeshed sinner tae manage baith at the same time, an' a 'll tell ye the case,' an' a' saw something wes comin'.

“'Ye ken Sandie Mackay, wha sells coals at Kildrummie station on week-day and preaches roond the country on Sabbaths. Drumsheugh's Saunders brocht up ma laist load frae Sandie; “half a ton best burning coal” wes on the paper, an' wud ye believe me, a hundred-wecht short measure, an' half o' them third quality--omission an' commission.'

“'A' can see ye 've scandalised, for a' mind noo, ye 've been acquant wi' Sandie in meetings; noo, Milton, a' wes calc'latin' that a 've lost sax and twopence exactly, and gin ye cud get it oot o' the waefu' wratch, this week, a'd sough awa easier.' Milton made aff withoot anither word, an' the bed shook ablow Jamie.” The afflicted patient was sitting up in bed when Doctor Davidson came in, and would have concealed his occupation had it been possible to get a large paper kite out of sight.

“It's for Saunders's laddie at Drumsheugh,” he apologised; “he's ane o' the maist impi-dent an' mischievous smatchits (little fellow) in the Glen. If a' didna help him wi' his bit trokes there wudna be a floor left in ma gairden; the bairns are juist the trachle o' ma life.”

“Quite so, Jamie; and of all the people in the Glen there's nobody you like so well and none that love you more. The more you scold them, the more they come to you. As for the women, you 've been criticising them for a generation, and now they're all fighting for the honour of nursing you.”

“Havers,” responded Jamie, “it's juist tae get a sicht o' the inside o' a weel-kept hoose, and tak a lesson in order, though a 'll no deny that Elspeth Macfadyen an' auld Mary hev been verra attentive, as weel as Bell Baxter an' Annie Mitchell.”

“It's just a pity, Jamie, that so good-hearted a man never had a woman of his own. What set you against marriage?”

“Wha sed a' wes against merridge, Doctor Davidson?” and Jamie's face flushed. “Did ever man or woman hear me speak lichtly o' the mystery o' luve? The Glen hes thocht me an auld cankered bachelor, an' a've seen a lass leave her lad's side on the sicht o' me. Little they kent!”

No man knew better than the minister when to be quiet, and the ticking of Jamie's big silver watch was heard throughout the kitchen.

“Doctor Davidson, ye've been an honest man in the pulpit an' oot o't a' thae years, an' yir warks hev aye gane afore yir words. A 'll tell ye ma secret afore a' dee; ou ay, a' ken a'm deein', an' a'm rael pleased.

“Ye 'ill no mind that forty-five year syne a' workit a hale winter near Kildrummie, gaein' and comin' nicht an' mornin'.

“A' met... a lassie there, an' a' cam tae luve her aince an' for ever. No that a' wud hae spoken tae her, for a've been an ill-made, ill-tempered, thrawn body a' ma days, an' she... she wes as gude as Marget Hoo, though different. What mair can man say?

“The day ma wark wes dune a' said gude-bye tae her, an' that micht hae been the end, but a' turned sudden, an' a' saw the luke on her face.

“She cud hae taen her pick o' a' the lads roond Kildrummie, but nae man can lay doon the law tae luve; she... tuke me, that hed naething but a faithfu' hert, an' we gied oor word ane tae the ither for life... an' deith, as a man an' wuman sud aifter Christ's comin'.

“We cudna be mairrit till the summer, an' we agreed tae write nae letters tae set the foukes' tongues gaein; we wantit tae hae oor ain secret.

“So we trysted tae meet aince a week at a stile in the woods atween here an' Kildrummie, an' we hed... seeven evenings thegither; that wes a' we ever saw o' ane anither in this warld.

“It wes the month o' May in an early spring that year, and the leaves were oot in their bonnie first green, an' the birds were busy wi' their nests, an' the lambs were still wi' their mithers in the field. A' nature wes glad wi' us, an' blessed oor luve.

“The gate hes fa'en tae pieces lang syne, and the gap's built up wi' a dyke, an' the trees are cut doon an' the hawthorn rooted up, but it's... the same place tae me.

“A' can see the tree where we sat, an' the primroses at oor feet, an' the sun shinin' on her face, an' the look in her eyes; a' see her wavin' her hand tae me on the road aifter we pairted, an' the glint o' her goon through the firs the last nicht.

“When a' cam the next day she wesna there, an' a hoddit amang the trees for a ploy, but it wes lang waitin', for she didna come, an' a' gied hame wi' fear in ma hert.

“It micht be that she cudna get awa, a' said tae masel as a' worked at a dyke, but the dread wes hangin' ower me, an' when there wes nae-body at the stile the next nicht, a' cud bide nae langer.

“A' set aff tae her hoose, and ilka turn o' the road a' lookit for Menie. Aince ma hert loupit in ma briest like a birdie in its cage, for a wumman cam along the near road frae Kildrummie, but it wesna Menie.

“When a' saw her brither wi' his face tae Drumtochty a' kent, afore he said a word, that he wes seekin' me, an' that Menie wes dead. Never a tear cam that day tae ma een, an' he telt me, stannin' in the middle o' the road where it begins tae gae doon the hill.

“'It wes her throat, an' the doctor wes feared frae the first day; the nicht she didna come she wes carried (delirious); she... said “Jamie, Jamie,” ower an' ower again, an' wanted tae rise.

“'Aboot daybreak she cam tae hersel, and knew oor faces. “A'm deein',” she said, “an' a' didna keep ma tryst last nicht. It's ower late noo, an' a 'll no see him on earth again.

“'“Tell James Soutar that it wesna ma blame a' failed, an' gie him ma Bible,” an' a while aifter she said, “A 'll keep the tryst wi' him some day,” an'... that 's a'.'

“Her brither gied me the book an' waited, expeckin' me tae say somethin', but a' hed nae words, an' he left me on the road, coontin' me hard o' hert; a' wes a' that nicht... at the stile.

“Doctor, wull ye obleege me by gaein' tae that cupboard and bringin' me ma Sabbath hat?”

Jamie took off the ring of crape, thin and faded with the years, and held it for a moment in his hand.

“Pit it in the fire, doctor, whar a' can see it burn; a've worn it forty-four years laist spring, but a 'll no need it again, for a 'm gaein' oot o' mournin' sune.

“Here's her Bible,” and Jamie brought it from a shelf in his box bed; “gin ye come tae ma chestin' (coffining), wull ye see it be pit in? There's naethin' else a' want tae cairry wi' me tae the ither side, an'... a 'll juist bid ye gude-bye, doctor; ye 're an honest man ootside an' in.”

“Would you like.. said the doctor, evidently moved.

“A' wud be obleeged,” and Jamie took off his night-cap.

Doctor Davidson prayed:

“Heavenly Father, who only art the source of love and the giver of every good gift, we thank Thee for the love wherewith the soul of Thy servant clave unto this woman as Jacob unto Rachel, which many years have not quenched. Remember the faithfulness of this true heart, and disappoint not its expectation. May the tryst that was broken on earth be kept in heaven, and be pleased to give Thy... give Jamie a good home-coming. Amen.”

“Thank ye, doctor; ye 've said what I wantit, an'... it wes kind o' ye tae pit in Jamie,” and his hand came out from the bed for a last grasp. He watched the minister go, and when Elspeth returned he said, “Yon's a richt man.”

The upland children returning home from school in the afternoon came to the cottage door, and Jamie, who had been dozing, heard their whispering.

“There's some o' thae prodigals oot there in the gairden; bring them in, Elspeth, or a' give them a hearin'; they 've juist been the torment o' ma life.”

They came in warily, as those who had some experience of former tricks, but there was no fear even among the girls. Had it not been known how Jamie detested children, you would have imagined that he had been their playmate.

“The warst laddie o' the lot,” and Jamie seemed to be speaking to the ceiling of his bed, “is Tammie Baxter. It's maist aggravatin' that he sud leave 'a lairge paper kite in a sick body's bed, an' me wantin' tae turn roond.” The kite projected itself forward from dark recesses in all its glory of many and very loud colours.

“It's rael bonnie,” was all that Tammie offered by way of thanks, as he took possession of his prize amid general envy.

“A' wudna say but there micht be sugar-candy in the cupboard,” continued Jamie in a soliloquy, and a rush for the door was stayed.

“Annie Mitchell 'ill divide it fair, an' a'm expeckin' a kiss.”

“Are ye near weel?” she said, when the debt was paid after a generous fashion. “Mither wants tae ken.”

“Tell her a'm juist gettin' on fine, an' a'll be a' richt in twa or three days.”

Elspeth reported the proceedings with the kite, and Jamie was full of anxiety.

“Tell Tammie tae pit on a heavier clod and keep tuggin',” till a shout came in through the door.

“It's near oot o' sicht,” and then Jamie was at peace.

“Bairns are an' awfu' trachle (trouble),” he moralised; “a' canna mak oot hoo fouk pit up wi' them; that lassie Mitchell is juist a hempie.”

Next morning Jamie declined conversation, and lay to all appearance unconscious, so that when the Free Kirk minister came, between whom and Jamie there had been a special friendship since the day Carmichael had declared his conviction on Posty's future state, Elspeth led him in on tip-toe and spoke in a whisper.

“Ou aye, a' kent ye wud be concerned, for you an' he were chief (friendly); he's been this wy a' day, naither better nor worse; juist leevin' that's a'; he 'ill never speak again.”

“I have been at the Glasgow sacrament,” and Carmichael went over to the fire-place; “else I would have come up before. Jamie has always been very kind to me. It 's sad to see him lying there speechless, who had the cleverest tongue in the Glen.”

“Ay, ay, he 's past speech noo; he hears naething.”

“Wes 't a vawcancy ye were preachin' in,” a loud, clear voice proceeded from the bed, “or juist helpin' a freend?”

“Preserve's a' body an' soul,” cried Elspeth; and Carmichael himself was shaken.

“We thought you were unconscious, Jamie; I 'm glad you can still take an interest in things.”

“There 's been a gey lot o' havers (nonsense) gaein' in this hoose the laist twal 'oors, but a' didna let on; na, na, a' enjoyed it.”

Kirsty Stewart came to share the night watch with Elspeth, but neither presumed till nearly daybreak, when Kirsty declared, with the just weight of her medical authority, that all was over.

“He hes the look, an' his hands are as cold as ice; feel his feet, wumman.”

“A' canna find them,” said Elspeth, making timid explorations.

“They used tae be on the end o' ma legs,” remarked Jamie, as if uncertain where they might now be placed.

Elspeth started back and looked at him, but his eyes were closed, and he gave no other sign of consciousness.

“A 'll no meddle wi' him again,” said Elspeth, solemnly, “though a' sit here for a week; he's a queer body, Jamie; he gied his ain wy a' his life, an' tak ma word for't, Kirsty, he 'ill hae his ain wy o' deein'.”

When the first ray shot through the window and trembled on the bed, Jamie raised himself and listened. He shaded his eyes with his hand, as if he were watching for some one and could not see clearly for excess of light.

“Menie,” he cried suddenly, with a new voice, “a 've keepit oor tryst.”

When they laid him in the coffin--the Bible in his hands--the smile was still on his face, and he appeared a man some forty years of age.

SERVANT LASS

I.--HOW SHE WENT OUT

Mary Robertson's brave fight to bring up her orphaned grandchildren had won her the silent respect of the Glen, and when it was reported that Lily had obtained a place in London, and would leave in three weeks, the fathers gave themselves to the incident on all its sides.

“Nae wumman in the pairish hes dune her duty better than Mary,” said Drumsheugh, with authority. “She's been an example tae every man o's. It's auchteen year laist Martinmas sin' her dochter's man ran aff and his puir wife came hame tae dee, leavin' her mother wi' the chairge o' sax young bairns. Ye canna dae't withoot help, Mary,' says I tae her: 'ye 'ill need a bit allooance frae the pairish, an' a 'll get it for ye next Boord. A shilling a week ilka bairn 'ill gang a lang wy in yir hands.'

“'Thank ye, Drumsheugh.' She wes standing at her gate, and drew herself up straicht. 'An' a' the neeburs hev been freendly; but? there's never been ane o' ma bluid on the pairish, an' there never wull be sae lang as the Almichty leaves me ma reason and twa airms.

“'Mary had a puir life o't, an' she deed o' the disgrace her man pit on her. “A'm gaein' awa,” she said tae me, “an' a've juist ae thing tae ask, mither; dinna lat the bairns gae on the pairish; bring them up tae wark and tae respeck themsels.” A' gied her ma word, an' a 'll keep it.' She lookit graund, fouks,” wound up Drumsheugh.

“She's rael Drumtochty, is Mary,” remarked Jamie Soutar; “for doonricht pride an' thraun-ness ye 'ill no get their marra in Scotland. What for did she no tak the allooance? She wud hae been a gude few notes the better a' thae years: mony an 'oor's wark she micht hae spared hersel'.

“Noo gin Mary hed been a wumman wi' a proper speerit o' humility and kent her place, she wud hae gruppit a' she cud get, and beggit frae the neeburs, an' gotten on better than ever. But if she didna sit up at nicht makin' the bairns' claithes, and wark in the fields a' day tae earn their schuling, an' a' tae keep her independence, as they ca't. A 've seen Mary come intae kirk wi' the sax bairns afore her, an' she cudna hae cairried her head higher hed she been the Coontess o' Kilspindie.

“A'm judgin' this kind o' speerit's in the verra air o' the Glen, for there's juist twa auld weemen on the pairish; ane o' them's blind, the ither's had a stroke; naither o' them hes a freend, an' baith o' them murn every day they canna wark.”

“Mary's an able wumman,” broke in Hillocks, who was much given to practical detail; “a've seen her hens layin' in the dead o' winter, and she hed a coo, a' mind, 'at gied half as muckle milk again as ony coo in oor toon. As for plannin' she got ma Sunday blacks when they were gey far through wi't, an' gin she didna juist mak a jacket for Chairlie 'at did him for ten year; a'm dootin' she hes tae pay for him yet: he's no the help he micht hae been as far as a' can mak oot; eh, Drumsheugh?”

“Gin it wesna for him daein' naethin' and livin' on his faimily, Hillocks, Lily micht stay wi' her grannie, an' keep Mary comfortable in her auld age. But they aye cover him, baith his grannie and his sister, till ye wud think there wes never a better-daein' lad gied oot o' the Glen. Whatever they say among themsels, they 'ill no say a word ootside.”

What they did say in Mary Robertson's cottage that evening was sad enough.

“Weel, weel, lassie, there wes sax tae begin wi', an' twa died o' the dipthery--eh, but Doctor Maclure wes kind that time--and twa mairried and gied awa, an' Chairlie... in Ameriky, an' there's juist yersel left, and I wes trustin' ye wud stay wi' yir auld grannie an' close her een.”

“Dinna speak that foolish wy, grannie,” but Lily's voice had a break in it. “Ye 're lookin' fresher than mony a young wumman, an' ye ken a'm tae get hame at a time, maybe ilka three year.”

“It's a lang road, Lily, tae Lunnon, an' ill tae traivel; a' may be dead and buried afore ye come back, an' a 'll be terrible lonely, juist like a bird when the young anes are ta'en awa.”

“Gin ye say anither word a 'll fling up ma place, an' never gang in tae service ava; it's no ma wush tae leave the Glen an' gang sae far frae hame. But we maun py the man in Muirtown what Chairlie borrowed, else oor name 'ill be disgraced.”

“It's disgraced eneuch already with sic a useless fellow; he's his faither ower again--a fair face, a weel-dressed back, a cunning tongue, an' a fause heart. There's no a drop o' Robertson bluid in him, lassie; there's times a' wish he was dead,” and Mary's voice trembled with passion.

“Wisht, wisht, grannie; he's mither's only son, an' she wes prood o' him, a've heard ye say, an' he 'ill maybe mend; div ye ken a' wes juist imaginin' that he set tae work and githered a lot o' siller, an' paid back a' ye hae dune for him.

“Ye 'ill no be angry, but a' telt Marget Hoo ae day aboot oor tribble an' ma houp o' Chairlie--for ye canna look at Marget an' no want tae unburden yersel--an' she said, 'Dinna be ashamed o' yir dreams, Lily; they 'ill a' come true some day, for we canna think better than God wull dae.'”

“Marget Hoo is nearer the heart o' things than onybody in the Glen, an' a'm prayin' she may be richt. Get the bukes; it's time for oor readin'.” And Mary asked that “the heart o' him that wes far awa micht be turned tae gudeness, an' that he micht be a kind brother to his sister.”

No girl had gone to service in London before, and the Glen took a general interest in Lily's outfit. The wricht made her kist of sound, well-seasoned wood, and the Glen, looking in from time to time, highly approved of its strength and security. Sandie was particularly proud of an inner compartment which he had contrived with much ingenuity, and which was secured by a padlock whose key defied imitation.

“Noo, you see, if ony ill-conditioned wratch got intae the kist, he micht get a goon or a jaicket, but he wudna be able tae titch her siller. Na, na, what she wins she keeps; ma certes, that boxie 'ill beat them.”

“Ye ken what ye're aboot, wricht,” said Hillocks, who felt that one going to distant parts could hardly take too many precautions, “an' ye've turned oot a wise-like kist; sall, Lily, 'ill dae weel gin she fill it.”

Concerning the filling long and anxious consultations were held in Mary's kitchen, and Elspeth Macfadyen was called in as a specialist, because she had been once in service herself, and because her sister was cook in the house of the Provost of Muirtown.

“We maunna gang a saxpence intae debt,” and Mary laid down preliminary conditions, “an' a'thing sud be genuine, in an' oot--nae show on the back and poverty ablow; that's puir cleidin' (clothing) for Christian fouk.”

“Lily 's savit aucht pund at the Lodge, an' a' can spare twa or three. How mony dresses an' sic-like 'ill she need tae begin respectable, for the hoose an' the kirk?”

“Lily 'ill need twa prints for certain, an' ae black dress for the house, an' anither dress for gaein' oot tae kirk or tae see her freends. She wud be better o' a third print an' a second oot-side goon--for a bit change, ye ken. Then she maun hae a bonnet for Sabbath an' a hat tae gae oot a message in forby. The ither things she 'ill hae already,” for Elspeth had been going over the matter carefully for weeks; “ye 'ill be getting her things at Muirtown, an' a 'll be gied to gie ye ony help in ma poor.”

Three hours did they spend next Friday in the Muirtown shop, examining, selecting, calculating, till Lily's humble outfit was complete and Elspeth's full list overtaken, save the third print and a merino gown on which Mary had set her heart.

“We haena the means,” and Mary went over the figures again on her fingers, “an' sae ye maun juist wait. Gin the price o' butter keeps up, ye 'ill hae them afore the New Year, an' a 'll send them up in a bit parcel.... Havers, what sud a' stairve masel for? nae fear o' that; but keep's a' what's Drumsheugh aifter here?”

“Hoo are ye a' the day?” said the great man, fresh from a victory over a horse-dealer, in which he had wrested a price beyond the highest expectation of Drumtochty; “can ye gie me a hand wi' twa or three bit trokes, Elspeth?” and the two disappeared into the recesses of the shop.

“A' heard ye were here, an' a' wes wonderin' hoo the siller wes haudin' oot; naebody daur offer half-a-croon tae Mary; but she michtna mind Lily gettin' a bit present frae a neebur, juist tae hansel her new kist, ye ken,” and Drumsheugh pressed two notes into Elspeth's hands, and escaped from the strange place by a side door. When the parcel was opened that evening, for the joy of going over its contents, Mary turned on Elspeth in fierce wrath.

“What did ye dae this for, Elspeth Macfadyen? an' behind ma back. Ye ken a' didna pay for thae twa, and that a 'll no tak an ounce o' tea let alane twa goons withoot payment. Pit the goons up, Lily, an' a 'll gie them back the mornin', though a' hae tae walk the hale twal mile tae Muirtown.”

“Dinna be sae hysty, Mary.” Elspeth was provokingly calm. “Ye needna be feared that Drumsheugh didna pay for his order, and if he wanted tae gie the lassie a fairin', a' see nae use in flinging it back in his face; but ye maunna lat on tae himsel for the warld, or tell a livin' soul.”

When Lily's box was packed on Thursday evening, her grandmother would have slipped in all the household treasures that could be introduced between layers of soft goods, and sent the eight-day clock had it been a suitable equipment for a young woman entering service in London. The box was taken down to Kildrummie station in one of Drumsheugh's carts, padded round with straw lest the paint be scratched, but Hillocks came with his dog-cart and drove Lily down in state, carrying in her right hand a bunch of flowers from Jamie Sou-tar's garden, and in the other a basket containing a comb of honey left by Posty, without remark, a dozen eggs from Burnbrae, and two pounds of perfect butter from Mary's hand. These were intended as a friendly offering from the Glen to Lily's new household that she might not appear empty-handed, but the peppermints that filled her pocket were for herself, and the white milk scones on the top of the bag, with a bottle of milk, were to sustain Lily on the long journey. Mary shook hands with Lily twice, once at the cottage door and again after she had taken her place beside Hillocks, but Mary did not kiss Lily, for whom she would have died, and whom she did not expect to see again in this life; nor were their farewell words affecting.

“See that ye hae yir box richt libelled, Lily, an' ye 'ill need tae watch it at the junctions; keep the basket wi' the eggs in yir hands, for fear somebody sits on't; an', Lily, wumman, for ony sake haud yir goon aff the wheel when ye 're gettin' doon at Kildrummie. Is't comin' tae a shoor, Hillocks?”

“A' wudna say but there micht be a scowie afore nicht; it 'ill freshen the neeps fine.” And so Lily departed.

“But Mary went to a knowe that commanded the road, and watched Hillocks's dogcart cross Tochty bridge and go up the other side till it disappeared into the dark fir woods on the ridge. Then she went back to the kitchen, where everything spoke of her girl, and sat down by the lonely fireside and wept.

“It was a curious coincidence that Jamie Soutar had some “troke” in Muirtown that day, and travelled in the same carriage with Lily, beguiling her from sorrow with quaint stories and indirect shrewd advice. As he was rather early for his business, he had nothing better to do than see Lily off by the London express, adding to her commissariat a package of sweets from the refreshment room, and an illustrated paper from the bookstall. He shambled along beside her carriage to the extreme edge of the platform, and the last thing Lily Grant saw as she went forth into a strange land was Jamie waving his hand. It showed that the old man's memory was beginning to fail that, instead of going down to the town, he went back by the midday train to Kildrummie, giving Mary a cry in the evening, and assuring her that Lily was so far on her journey in “graund heart.”

It was covenanted between them that Lily should send Mary a “scrape o' the pen” on arrival--as an assurance that she was safe, and the eggs--and should write in a while at full length, when she had settled down to her work and found a kirk. The Glen waited for this letter with expectation, and regarded it as common property, so that when Posty delivered it to Mary he sat down without invitation, and indicated that he was ready to receive any titbits she might offer for his use.

“Lily's keepin' her health, but she's no awfu' ta'en up wi' the climate o' London; wud ye believe it, they hae the gas lichtit by two o'clock in the aifternoon, an' the fog's eneuch tae smoor ye; it's no veecious cauld though.”

“There's waur things than cauld,” said Posty, who had started that morning in twenty degrees of frost; “is she wearyin'?”

“Whiles a'm dootin', puir lassie; when she hes half an 'oor tae hersel, she gaes up tae her room and taks oot a pokie (bag) o' rose leaves we dried in the simmer. The smell o' them brings up oor bit gairden and me stannin', as plain as day, at the door. Fouk tak notions, a 've heard, when they 're far frae hame,” added Mary, by way of apology.

“Ay, ay,” and Posty looked steadily from him.

“It's eatin' an' drinkin' frae mornin' till nicht, Lily says; an' the verra servants hae meat three times a day, wi' beer tae their dinner. An' the wyste cowes a'; she says Elspeth Macfadyen wud get her livin' frae amang their feet.”

“A' dinna think muckle o' beer,” observed Posty; “there 's nae fusion in't; naither heat for the stamach nor shairpness for the intel-leck.”

“A set o' extravagant hizzies,” continued Mary; “fur on their jaickets, like leddies, an' no a penny in the bank. The meenut they get their wages, aff tae spend them on finery. Ane o' them borrowed five shillings frae Lily tae get her boots soled.”

“Lord's sake, that's no cannie,” and Posty awoke to the dangers that beset a young girl's path in the great Babylon; “tell Lily, whatever she dis, tae keep her haud o' her siller.”

“Ye 're richt there, Posty. Lily's juist ower saft-hearted, and she hes a gey lot o' trimmies tae deal wi'. Wud ye credit it, ilka ane o' them hes 'Miss' on her letters, an' gin freends come tae see them they maun ask for Miss this an' that; a' pit 'Lily Grant, Hoosemaid,' on ma letters.”

“Ye're wrang there, Mary,” interrupted Posty; “what for sud ye ca' doon yir ain, an' her sic a fine lassie? Ma opeenion is that a Drumtochty wumman hes as gude a richt tae Miss as her neeburs. Sall, gin a' catch ye sendin' aff anither 'Lily,' a'll whup in the Miss masel; but is there nae word aboot the kirks?” for Posty felt that these trifling details were keeping them from the heart of the matter.

“A'm comin' tae that, an' it's worth hear-in', for the ignorance o' thae London fouk is by ordinar. When she askit the near road tae the kirk, naebody in the hoose cud tell her whether it wes east or wast.”

Posty wagged his head in pity.

“So she gied oot and fell in wi' a polisman, an' as luck wud hae it, he wes a Scotchman. 'Come awa, lassie,' he said; 'a' see whar ye 've frae; it 's a mercy ye didna fa' intae the hands o' some of ma neeburs; they micht hae sent ye aff tae the Methodies, an' they wud hae gien ye a fricht wi' cryin' Hallelujah.'”

“A graund body for a' that,” interpolated Posty, “but clean astray on the decrees.”

“'Yonder 's the place,' says he, 'an' ye pit yir collection in a plate at the door--there 's nae ladles--but there 's a couthie wumman keeps the door in the gallery, an' she 'ill gie ye a seat.'

“She kent it wes her ain place when she saw a properly ordained minister in the pulpit, wi' his black goon and bonnie white bands; and when they started the Hundredth Psalm, her heart cam intae her mooth, an' she cudna sing a word.”

“Wes there an organ?” demanded Posty, with the manner of one who has a duty to perform, and must be on his guard against sentiment.

“A 'll no tell ye a lee, Posty, there wes, an' of coorse Lily didna like it, but she wes terrible pleased wi' the sermon. As for the organ, it juist boomilled awa, an' she never lat on she heard it.”

“Dis she gie the texts an' diveesions?” and Posty smacked his lips.

“It's no likely she wud forget that, aifter gaein' ower them ilka Sabbath nicht here sin she wes a wee bairnie. 'Faith without works is dead.' James, ye ken.”

“Ay, ay,” cried Posty, impatiently; “a testin' text; ye cudna hae a better tae jidge a a man by; hoo wes 't handled?”

“Three heads. First, 'True religion is a principle in the soul'--Posty nodded, 'that's faith.' Second, 'It is a practice in the life'--'warks.' murmured Posty. Third, 'Without a principle in the soul, there can't be a practice in the life.'”

“A' see naethin' wrang there, Mary; it's maybe no verra oreeginal, but that's naither here nor there; gin ye stand on yir head ye can aye see a new glen; it wis soond an' instructive. Did he titch on Paul and James? he wud be sure tae be reconcilin' them, gin he be ablow forty.”

“That's a' she writes on the sermon, but she gied intae the vestry wi' her lines, an' the minister wes rael kind tae her when he heard her tongue.

“His English slippit aff in a meenut, an' oot cam the auld tongue; he's a Perthshire man himsel, though frae the sooth end, an' his wife's second cousin is merried tae the minister o' Kildrummie's brother, so ye micht say he wes conneckit wi' Drumtochty.

“He telt her tae coont him a freend noo that she wes amang strangers, an' tae send for him in tribble, an' Lily declares that she gaed back that mornin' wi' her heart fu' of comfort an' gledness. So ye may tell the neeburs that Lily's daein' weel in London. She sends her respects tae Drumsheugh, and ye'ill say tae Jamie Soutar that Lily wes askin' for him.”

When Posty departed, Mary read the last part of Lily's letter slowly to herself.

“The minister's prayer took in a' kinds o' fouk, an' ae peteetion, a' thocht, wes for us, grannie: 'Remember any one about whom his friends are anxious '--and he stopped for half a meenut. Ye cud hae heard a preen (pin) fall, an' a' said tae masel, 'Chairlie.'

“Dinna be ower cast doon aboot him, nor gie up houp; he's young an' thochtless, an' he 'ill maybe tak a turn sune.

“A've savit five pund aff ma wages, an' a'm sendin't in a note, for a' didna want the fouk at the post-office tae ken oor affairs.

“Noo, gin ye be writin' Chairlie, will ye slip in a pund juist as a bit reminder o' his sister, an' the ither fower 'ill help tae py the Muirtown debt.

“Dinna think a'm scrimpin' masel or daein' onything mean. Aifter a've spent sax pund a year on claithes and little trokes, and three on ma kirk, a 'll hae aucht ower for the debt.

“When the laist penny's paid o' Chairlie's debt a 'll buy the best black silk in London for ye; an' gin a'm spared tae come hame tae the summer Sacrament, we 'ill gang thegither tae the table.”

“Twa silly weemen,” said Mary to herself, “for he's juist a ne'er-dae-weel... an' yet, gin he cam in noo, a' wud gie him the claithes aff ma back, an' sae wud Lily. For the look in his een an' the soon' o' his voice.”

II.--HOW SHE CAME HOME

When Jamie Soutar dropped into the smithy-one spring evening with an impracticable padlock, and mentioned casually that he was going to London next day, the assembled neighbours lost power of speech.

“Did ye say London, Jamie?” Hillocks was understood to have shown great presence of mind in unparalleled circumstances; “an' are ye in yir senses?”

“As sune as ye recover yir strength, smith,” said Jamie, taking no notice of fatuous questions, “a 'll be obleeged gin ye wud turn the key in this lock. It's a wee dour tae manage; a' hevna used ma bag sin a' gaed tae the saut water saxteen year past.”

“Did ye ever hear the like?” and the smith looked round the circle for support, refusing to treat Jamie's demand as an ordinary matter of business.

“What are ye glowerin' at me for as if a' wes a fairlie?” and Jamie affected anger; “hes a Drumtochty man no as muckle richt tae see the metropolis o' the country as ither fouk, gin he can pay his fare up an' doon?

“A've been wantin' tae see the Tooer o' London, whar mony a lord hes pairted wi' his heid, an' Westminster Abbey, whar the michty dead are lyin', an' the Hooses o' Parliament, whar they haver a hale nicht through, an' the streets, whar the soond o' feet never ceases.

“The fact is,” and Jamie tasted the situation to the full, “a 'm anxious tae improve ma mind, an' gin ye speak me fair a 'll maybe gie the Glen a lecture in the schulehoose in the winter time wi' a magic-lantern, ye ken.”

The neighbours regarded him with horror, and, after he had departed, united their wisdom to solve the mystery.

“Jamie's by himsel in the Glen,” summed up Hillocks, “an' hes a wy o' his ain. Ma thocht is that he juist took a notion o' seein' London, an' noo that we 've contered (opposed) him, Jamie 'ill go, gin it cost him ten notes.”

On his way home Jamie gave Mary Robertson a cry, who was sitting very lonesome and sad-like before her door.

“Hoo are ye, Mary? the smell o' spring's in the air, an' the buds are burstin' bonnie. Ye 'ill no hae heard that a 'm aff tae London the morrow, juist for a ploy, ye ken, tae see the wonders.”

As Mary only stared at him, Jamie offered explanations in atonement for his foolishness.

“Ye see a 've aye hed an ambeetion tae see the big warld that lies ootside oor bit Glen, for its far awa' soon' hes been often in ma ear. A 've savit a note or twa, an' a 'll get a glimpse afore a' dee.”

“It's a Providence, an' naethin' less than an answer tae prayer,” broke in Mary, in great agitation; “here hev I been murnin' that a' cudna get tae London masel, an' that a' kent naebody there, till ma heart wes weary in ma breist.

“Naethin' is sairer, Jamie, than tae ken that ane ye luve is lyin' ill amang strangers, wi' naebody o' her bluid tae speak a couthy word tae her, puir lassie, or gie her a drink. A' wes juist seein' her lyin' alane at the top of the big hoose, an' wushin' she wes wi 's a' in the Glen.”

“Posty said something aboot Lily bein' a wee sober,” Jamie remarked, with much composure, as if the matter had just come into his memory; “an' noo a' mind ye expeckit her hame for a holiday laist August. She wudna be wantin' tae traivel sae far north, a'm jalousin'.”

“Traivel!” cried Mary; “naebody cares for a long road gin it brings us hame; an' Lily wes coontin' she would come up wi' the Drumtochty fouk on the first Friday o' laist August. A' wes cleanin' up the place for a month tae hae 't snod, but she didna come, an' a'm fearin' she 'ill no be here again; a' hed a feelin' frae the beginnin' a' wud never see Lily again.

“Her letter cam on a Thursday afternoon when I was beginnin' tae air the sheets for her bed, an' when Posty gave it, I got a turn.

“Lily's no comin,' sit doon,” a' sed.

“Scarlet fever broke oot amang the bairns in the family, an' she thocht it her duty tae stay and help, for the hoose wes fu' o' nurses, an' the cairryin' wes by ordinar.”

“It wes a sacrifice,” said Jamie. “Lily never eneuch cared for hersel; the wark wud tell on her a 'll warrant.”

“Ma opeenion is that she's never got the better o' that month, an, Jamie, a' hevna likit her letters a' winter. It 's little she says aboot hersel, but she 's hed a hoast (cough) for sax months, an' a' gither her breath 's failin'.

“Jamie, a' hevna said it tae a livin' soul, but a 've hed a warnin' no langer back than laist nicht. Lily's deein', an' it wes London 'at hes killed her.

“Ye 'ill gae tae see her, Jamie; ye aye were a gude friend tae Lily, an' she likit ye weel. Write hoo she is, an' bring her back wi' you gin she can traivel, that a' may see her again, if it be the Lord's wull.”

“Dinna be feared o' that, Mary; a'll no come back withoot Lily,” and Jamie's air of resolution was some consolation.

Before he left, Jamie visited a sheltered nook in Tochty woods, and when he inquired for Lily Grant next day at the door of a London West-End house, there was a bunch of fresh primroses in his hand.

“Disna live here noo, did ye say? then what hae ye dune wi' Lily? a' maun get tae the boddom o' this,” and Jamie passed into the hall, the majestic personage at the door having no strength left to resist.

“Tell yir mistress this meenut that a freend hes come frae Drumtochty tae ask news of Lily Grant, an' wull wait till he gets them,” and Jamie's personality was so irresistible that the personage counselled an immediate audience.

“Grant's father, I suppose?” began Lily's mistress, with suspicious fluency. “No? Ah, then, some relative, no doubt? how good of you to call, and so convenient, too, for I wanted to see some of her family. She was an excellent servant, and so nice in the house; the others were quite devoted to her. But I never thought her strong. Don't you think London is trying to country-girls?”

Jamie did not offer any opinion.

“One of the children caught that horrid scarlet fever, and in the beginning of August, of all times, when we were going down to Scotland. Some of the servants had left, and the child had to be nursed here; there was lots of work, and it fell on Grant.

“She was going at that very time to her home--Drum something or other; or was it Ben?--it's always the one or the other when it isn't Mac.”

“Drumtochty is the name o' Lily's hame, an' her auld grandmither wes lookin' for her aifter three years' service.”

“Quite so; and that 's just what I said to her. 'Take your holiday, Grant, and we'll worry on somehow,' but she wouldn't go. We thought it so pretty of her, for servants are generally so selfish; and she really did wonderfully, as much as three women, do you know?”

“If it wudna hurry ye, wud ye tell me her address in London?”